


After the Rain has Fallen

by helsinkibaby



Series: Tests of Faith [6]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-08-24
Updated: 2002-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:31:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of the shooting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Rain has Fallen

_After the rain has fallen_  
After the tears have washed your eyes  
You'll find out I've taken nothing  
That love can't replace in the blink of an eye  
After the thunder's spoken  
And after the lightning bolt's been hurled  
After the dream has broken  
There'll still be love in the world.  
  
*

I take several deep breaths as I make my way down the halls of the West Wing, knowing that that's supposed to be a sure-fire way of calming yourself. It doesn't work. When I reach Margaret's office, she gives me a reassuring smile. "Hey," I tell her, doing my best to smile in return. "Is he in?"

"He's expecting you," she nods, waving a hand to show me in.

When I enter the office, Leo stands up, and I notice that he's not looking as dapper as I'm used to seeing him. Which is to be expected I suppose, since it was less than thirty-six hours ago that racist madmen opened fire on him and the rest of the Presidential entourage, my husband among them. We’re all looking a little ragged, we're all feeling the strain, and I'm pretty sure that I've got more rest than Leo has. After all, Toby and I grabbed a couple of hours at home yesterday morning, before heading back in here. I worked here until one in the morning, he split his time between the office and the hospital before we dragged each other home, falling asleep in each other's arms the second our heads hit the pillow, sleeping straight through until the alarm went off. Chalk one up for the simple pleasure of falling asleep with the person you love most in the world - I can't believe how I'd started to take it for granted. This morning, we looked tired, but we felt rested, and that's all that matters right now.

Leo on the other hand, looks older than I've ever seen him, and I hope for his sake that Mrs Bartlet works some of her magic on him and orders him to get some rest, and that she does it soon. But he's standing in front of me now, and he's offering me a seat and my stomach is in knots about what I have to say next. "No thank you…I think I'd rather stand for this." He nods, and I find myself twisting my hands nervously, unable to look at him.

"Ginger?" He breaks the silence, his voice gentle, and when I look up, he's leaning forward in his chair. "Everything ok?"

"I wanted to come and apologise…" I manage to begin, and I know that my voice is shaking. He doesn't seem to know what I'm talking about; one of his eyebrows raises in question. "For what I said…at the hospital yesterday. I know that it was… unprofessional…of me, to say the least, and if you want my resignation, then I fully understand…"

"Ginger." He raises a hand to stop me. "Calm down for a minute. The hospital. When you got …" He pauses, trying to come up with a tactful way of saying "when you freaked out and yelled at your husband in front of the White House Chief of Staff and the First Lady of the United States of America." He does it too, because he continues, "..Upset."

"Yes."

He's staring at me, as if he can't quite process what I'm saying, and then he stands up, coming around to stand beside me. "Why don't we sit down?" I allow him to lead me to the couch, and I sit down on it, only praying that my shaking legs will hold me up long enough to get over there. He sits down beside me, and his expression is full of concern. "Now…why do you think I'd want you to resign for that?"

I take a deep breath, fingering my wedding ring for strength. "When Toby and I began to work together …you told us that we could work together, that you didn't have a problem with it, as long as our personal relationship didn't come into work time And you said the same thing when we got married."

"And it hasn't, has it?"

"Except for yesterday." The memory of me collapsing in tears in Toby's arms brings a hot blush to my cheeks.

"And you think I would want you to resign over that."

"I know what you must think of me Leo, and I really am sorry…"

His voice cuts across me. "Ginger, I think that you're a loving wife. Who, for a while yesterday, didn't know whether her husband was alive or dead. This after a day spent not knowing if your husband's brother was alive or dead." His voice is somewhere between amused and admiring, and my head is whirring. "Frankly, I'm amazed you kept it together as long as you did."

I blink a couple of times, trying to process what he's telling me. "So…you're not mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you. And I certainly don't want you to resign. I hear things Ginger…about how you kept it together yesterday, how you kept people's spirits up…"

"I did?"

"With your constant food runs? CJ told me. So did Margaret. And I saw for myself all the running around you were doing last night when I got back here. Aside from that, I also know for a fact that you're the best thing that ever happened to Toby Ziegler. And to this office, I might add, because you're the only one who can work with Toby without wanting to kill him." We share a smile at that one. "I don't want to imagine what he'd be like without you to keep him in line. So I don't want to hear any more talk like this, you got that?"

I grin. "Yes Sir."

He pats my hand. "Good girl. Now, get back to work. See what mayhem that husband of yours is causing, and fix it."

I stand, all trace of nerves gone. That I can definitely do. "Yes Sir." There's a spring in my step when I pass Margaret's desk, and when I smile at her, it's far more genuine than it was when I first walked into Leo's office. The relief of knowing that I'm not going to have to resign, that Leo doesn't think of me as some hysterical wife who can't keep her emotions in check when it counts makes me positively giddy, and I can't even feel the ground under my feet when walking back to my desk.

That emotion doesn't decrease in the slightest when I arrive at my desk and find a steaming cup of coffee and a cheese Danish waiting for me. I know without asking that Toby left it for me; he does that every now and again, mornings when he thinks that I need cheering up, when I'm not especially looking forward to the day. Sometimes, he does it for no particular reason at all.

And I swear to God, I'm not going to cry over this in the middle of the bullpen.

I'm doing my best to keep myself together when the man himself walks by, a manila folder in his hand. "Ginger, can I see you for a second?"

*

Yesterday was the day from hell. The day before wasn't too great either.

Today started out much better. I'd had a good night's sleep, with my beautiful wife in my arms, both so us so tired when we went to bed that we fell asleep straight away and didn't wake until morning. And this morning, when we did wake up, I spent some time showing her just how grateful I was that she was there with me, just how much I love her. There's nothing like being shot at to make one appreciate the simple pleasures of life.

I was smiling when I came into work this morning, but Ginger didn't seem to share my good mood. I know she was fine when she first woke up. It was when we grabbed a quick cup of coffee before we left the house that her mood seemed to darken. Today was one of the rare mornings that we drove in together, because I’m pretty sure that for the next little while she's going to be dragging my ass out of here every night, and she didn't say a word in the car. I had to practically drag conversation out of her. And that's not like her. Then, we did get into the office, I literally only had time to take off my coat, then I turned around and looked for her, but she'd vanished off somewhere.

I shouldn't be worried, but I am. The image of her in tears in the hospital, the feel of her body shaking in my arms, the angry words that she said, are all too fresh in my mind. So I go to the mess and I get some breakfast for myself, picking up a coffee and a cheese Danish, her favourite, for her. She's still not back at her desk when I come back, so I just leave them there, knowing that she'll know who they're from. Because really, if my wife has some other gomer leaving her Danishes and coffee, that's something I should know about.

I've just realised that I've been hanging around Josh too long.

I look up from Ginger's desk as that realisation hits me, only to find CJ looking at me, an amused smile on her face. I raise an eyebrow at her. "What?"

She shakes her head. She's got that tired look that we all have, even more so than usual, but the smile on her face takes the edge off a little. "Nothing." She steps closer to me, so that only I can hear what she's saying. "Just amazed at how sweet you can be sometimes." I think I'm blushing, and I hope she doesn't notice, but her smile grows a little, and that's the end of that idea. "Walk with me a little…I've got something for you."

I follow her through the halls until we get to her office, exchanging news on how Josh and the President are doing, wondering idly how Donna must be feeling, arranging a loose schedule for going by the hospital. When we get to her office, she closes the door and waves at me to take a seat as she rummages through a folder on her desk. "What?" I ask her, more than a little curious.

"There's a picture that I wanted you to see," she tells me, that smile still on her face. "I've got a feeling that most of the papers are going to carry it one place or another."

I rub my hand over my forehead, feeling my good mood evaporate. "Is this going to be a thing?" The last time we had a conversation like this, it was over the phone, it was way too early in the morning, and it was about Sam and his friend, and I really don't think we need a repeat of that, not now.

But CJ's still smiling, so it can't be that. "Not in a bad way," she tells me, straightening up, a photograph in her hand. She slides it face down across the table. "I must say Toby, you don't take a bad picture."

Interested now, I lift the picture from the desk, turning it up slowly so that I can see it. I'm surprised when I realise what it is, although I don't think I let it show. "I didn't know that there was a camera."

"So I see." It's only when CJ speaks that I realise I said that out loud. What I'm looking at is a picture of Ginger and me, sitting on a bench outside GW. I know when it was taken; yesterday afternoon, right after my conversation with Ron Butterfield. He'd told me that it wasn't my fault, that what happened had nothing to do with the memo I wrote to get rid of the canopy, and Ginger was trying to convince me that he was right. I was feeling so tired, and guilty and worried that I forgot our usual embargo on public displays of affection and put my arm around her. Which in turn led her to slip her arms around me and put her head on my shoulder. The picture that I have in my hands has us in just that position, her eyes closed. My head is turned towards her, and I'm kissing the top of her head.

"It's a good picture," CJ tells me now.

"Yes. Yes it is." Then what CJ told me before she showed it to me permeates my brain and I look up sharply. "You said most of the papers are going to have this?"

"So I've been told."

"Why?" I manage to resist the urge to laugh in amazement, but a chuckle comes out anyway.

CJ shrugs. "The human face of the administration." She waves a hand over the folder that the picture came from. "I could show you a hundred photos from different photographers of you, and me and Sam and Leo…all of us in motion, going to and from the hospital, just stunned looks on our faces. This…" She points her pen at the picture in my hand. "This is real. It's two people who are under extreme pressure, who are trying to comfort one another. It's human interest."

"CJ…" I take a deep breath. "Ginger and I have never made it a secret that we're married…but we've never announced it either, we've never made a big deal of it." CJ nods, knowing how true that is. "How will it look if this picture draws attention to that fact?"

That question makes CJ laugh. "You think that people are going to come after us now over that? Toby, I've talked to the reporters; I know how the press are going to spin this. They're going to paint you as the happy couple of the administration, working tirelessly for the good of your country, at the pleasure of the President. They're going to talk about how she was at home, looking at the television, how she didn't know if you were hurt or not…how worried you were over your friends who were hurt, but were there for each other. Toby, this is only going to increase public sympathy for you two."

I stare down at the picture, rubbing my hand over my mouth in frustration. What I said to CJ was true, we've never hidden the fact that we were together well before the campaign, and it's never come up as an issue that we're married and that we work together. But it's always been something that I've been worried might come up, Leo too. Ginger and I keep a low profile most of the time, and photos of us in the public eye are few and far between. The idea that this photo can be out there with no fear of repercussion would normally be a welcome one, but right here, right now….

"CJ…can we stop this?" She looks surprised. "I'm not comfortable with this…with using my marriage for political gain…"

"That's not what we're doing Toby. It's not." I give her a sceptical look. "Toby, it's the press who have decided to spin it like this. And when I say most papers, I mean most papers. This picture has been up on the Internet from the early hours, Carol's had people double checking the facts of your marriage…it's out there pal-o-mine, there's no getting it back."

I sigh. "Yeah." I meet CJ's eyes and suddenly, I can't help smiling. She returns it, and for a moment, this is so normal that I can't stand it. "It's a good picture," I say.

"It really is." I start to give it back to her, but she holds out her hand, stopping me. "I've got another copy Toby…I thought you might like to keep that one." She hands me over a manila folder to put it into. "Toby…" I look up at her. "How was Ginger? Last night?"

"OK. We were here 'til late…but she's ok. I think the break in the afternoon did her good."

"It did you both good." She's not teasing me for once; it's just a statement of fact.

"I should thank you…for trying to give me that heads-up in your office. I never stopped to think about how it was for her…just expected her to keep going."

"She worries about you."

"I know."

She pauses for a long moment before she leans forward in her chair, arms resting on the desk. "Toby…you do know how lucky the two of you are, don't you?" I begin to shake my head, more to stop the sentimentality that I can see coming than as a form of denial, but she continues anyway. "I mean it Toby…yesterday…it was so horrible, so unreal. I never thought that anything like that could happen to us. It shook my whole faith, you know? And then I got back here, and I saw the two of you together. Or one of you talking about the other. And it just reminded me…that there's still hope. And love. And that not everything was all doom and gloom. That's what that picture is Toby. Hope. And people need to be reminded of that."

I can feel the blush rising on my cheeks and I flip open the folder for one last look at the picture. "Yeah."

She looks away, but not before I see the tears in her eyes, and I stand, making some inane comments about how I need to get back to work, and she says something about how she does too. On my way back to my own office, I can't help but think about what CJ said. I never knew that she felt that way…although I certainly knew how lucky I was. How could I not? When Ginger and I first began to see each other, I was very aware that I was a fat, grumpy, middle aged, balding man, with a habit of drinking too much, and that I was nearly twenty years older than she was. I could never understand what she saw in me, could never understand why she wanted to marry me. And sometimes, although I always know, I do forget how lucky I am.

Yesterday's events were a wake-up call for me.

I remembered exactly how much I love this woman. Just how much she means to me. When gunshots were exploding over my head, the only coherent thought I could find was that I was grateful that she wasn't there. Because I don't know what I'd do if anything ever happened to her.

When I get back to the bullpen, Ginger's standing at her desk, staring at the coffee and Danish there. She looks as if she's near tears, and I call to her as I go by. "Ginger, can I see you for a second?"

She follows me in and closes the door, frowning. "Everything ok?"

"I’m fine," I tell her, throwing the folder on my desk. Checking that the blinds are pulled down, I go to her, putting my hands on her shoulders. "Are you ok?"

She smiles, closing her eyes and tilting her head to one side sheepishly. "I’m fine Toby. Thank you for the coffee and Danish by the way."

I squeeze her shoulders. "I thought you needed them." Then it's my turn to tilt my head. "Where were you?"

There's another little smile, and I know that she's not going to tell me where she was, which I suppose means that it's not important. "Just saying good morning to people. Where were you?"

"CJ's office." I drop my hands and go over to the desk, picking up the folder. "Seems that we're going to be famous."

*

I don't mind admitting that I was quite worried when Toby called me into his office, all the more so when he checked that the blinds were pulled before going into his concerned husband act. Then when he told me that we were going to be famous, I didn't know what to think. I mean, he's already famous. Not that many people know who the President's Director of Communications is per se, but certainly in Washington political circles, the name Toby Ziegler is well known. The fact that he said "we" also gave me pause for thought. We keep our marriage pretty quiet, and people have met Toby in the office and then talked to me about him, not knowing that he's my husband. And of course, there was the time, now Capitol Hill Legend, that Congressman Wick was in a meeting with Toby and at the end of it complimented him on his beautiful assistant (I'd brought coffee into them halfway through) and asked him if he knew whether I was seeing anyone. Josh took great delight in telling us how Toby, no great fan of Congressman Wick at any time, informed him that I was, in fact, a married woman, to which the Congressman made some remark about what a lucky bastard that particular man was, and that he probably didn't even realise it. According to Josh, Toby just raised an eyebrow and told him that he was quite well aware of how lucky he was, thank you very much, and he'd be sure to pass the Congressman's regards on to his wife. Josh's impression of the Congressman's reaction to that has to be seen to be believed. Congressman Wick has avoided Toby ever since, which is why Josh took the meetings with him last year when he jumped the fence on 802 - and Toby was convinced that he did that just to spite Josh and him, because the story about what he said to Toby about me went the rounds of Capitol Hill.

Josh maintains his innocence, although I'm not so sure I believe him.

When Toby handed me the folder, I wasn't sure what I was going to see. So when I saw the photo inside, it took me a second to process what I was actually looking at, and when I did, I just smiled. I know exactly when it was taken, knew that GW was swarming with press, but I didn't see any around when I went to sit with Toby. Even if I had known, in my wildest dreams, I wouldn't have thought that they'd end up with a photo like this. Toby's looking down at me with such love and concern in his face, kissing the top of my head. My head is resting on his shoulder, my eyes are closed, but there's the slightest smile on my face. You could make a case for us just being an ordinary couple in love, except for the circumstances surrounding it.

When I drag my eyes away from the picture, Toby's looking at me with a vaguely amused look on his face. "You like it?"

I move to the couch and sit down, looking back at the photo when I do so. "I didn't see any cameras," I tell him and he shakes his head, coming to join me.

"Me either. But then again, we had other things on our minds."

I nod at that, but then his first words when he handed me the picture come back to me. "What do you mean, we're going to be famous?" He pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, which is never a good sign. "And where did you get this?"

"One of the press gave it to CJ. It's been on the Internet since last night. And she thinks that most of the papers are going to run with it today."

I open my mouth and close it again. Then do it once more just for fun. "Toby, why?" I finally manage. I would have thought that they would have had far more things to write about than a picture of the two of us stealing a moment from the day.

"This-" Toby taps the picture. "Is apparently, the only picture of Bartlet staffers sitting quietly, not moving to or from the hospital. And there's also the…um…human interest angle. How you were looking at it on the television, how you didn't know if I was ok or not."

"And the press are interested in this?"

He shrugs. "Human interest…real people, real lives. It's a bigger interest point for some people than West Virginia White Pride and Neo-Nazism." His mouth tightens at the last sentence, and I can feel the tension starting to build in him.

"Well," I say, partly to distract him, partly to distract myself, "It's something to tell the grandkids I suppose."

He blinks a couple of times before laughing, his eyes lighting up. I love this man's laugh - it can literally take years off him, and he hasn't laughed nearly enough this past year. "We have to get started on the kids first you know," he points out logically to me, and I give him my sassiest smile.

"Well, if that's an offer…" I lean over as if to kiss him, before standing up at the last minute, stepping over him. "I'd love to take it, but my boss probably wants me to do some work." I head straight for the door and look back before I open it, to see him looking after me, smiling and shaking his head.

"That," he decides, "Was evil."

"That," I tell him, still with that same smile, "Is why you love me."

I've only just opened the door when I hear his voice. "Yes I do."

Damn. Because I really want to kiss him now, but if I pinwheel around and close the door then everyone's going to know the reason why. And I momentarily ponder doing it anyway before shaking my head and going back to my desk to my coffee and Danish.

A couple of hours later, I realise that CJ was right about Toby and me being famous now. Every person who has a newspaper brings it up to me, showing me the picture, letting me see what they're saying about us. Some of the captions are so sentimental as to be hilarious; some bring tears to my eyes. The worst offender in the latter category is the Washington Post. The caption beneath the picture reads "White House Communications Chief Toby Ziegler and his wife Ginger wait for news of their friend, Josh Lyman." Nothing incriminating there, fairly bland as captions go. But there's a section in the article about the White House reaction that makes me choke up.

"While much has been written about the victims President Bartlet, Joshua Lyman and Stephanie Abbott, far less has been considered about the other victims; the other members of the entourage, the White House Senior Staff. Of their friends and families, watching at home on television. White House Communications Director Toby Ziegler is part of the other White House happy couple. He and his wife Ginger got married in the midst of the Bartlet for America campaign; she was then, and is now, his assistant, and many of those who know them say that that's because she's the only one who could possibly put up with him. Ginger wasn't at Rosslyn; she was at home, watching the speech on television. Going about her business when the speech was over, she was probably waiting for Toby to call her to tell her that he was on the way home. Instead, she found out the way many of you found out that her husband was involved in an assassination attempt on the President. She watched it on television."

"Having covered the campaign, I knew who Ginger and Toby Ziegler were. Knew that they were a perfect match, in work and in life. I wasn't surprised, nor was anyone else who knew them, when they married quietly, taking a single day as their honeymoon. The wedding was a small one. Joshua Lyman was best man. His assistant, and one of Ginger's best friends, Donna Moss, was bridesmaid. I've seen pictures, on her desk, on his. All four are wearing beaming smiles."

"Yesterday, I stood in a hospital waiting room as three of them waited on news of the fourth. I saw the strain on their faces, the fear, the worry. I saw the relief when Leo McGarry told us that Josh was awake, that he was going to be ok. And the sound of Donna's sobs, and later Ginger's as she collapsed in her husband's arms, are a sound that no words can describe."

I got that far in the article and literally had to put it to one side, go to the ladies' room and compose myself. When I emerge, wouldn't you know it, the first person that I run into is Danny Concannon, who takes one look at my pale face and my red eyes before putting his arm on my elbow and steering me to one side.

"You ok Ginger?" he asks me, and I can't help but laugh.

"I'm fine Danny. And don't look at me like that. This is all your fault you know."

"Ah." He seems to know what I'm talking about. That's one great thing about Danny - he's very astute, but he's also on our side. I know that I'm not going to read in tomorrow's paper about my crying in the ladies' room. "Saw the article huh?"

"Haven't finished it yet," I admit.

"Ah-kay." He looks down, then up at me again. "I hope that I didn't…I mean, if it offended you…"

"It's fine Danny," I quickly tell him. "It's a great article. It's just…"

"A little close to the bone huh?"

"Yeah."

"OK then." He nods. "You sure you're fine?" When I nod again, he moves off, only getting a couple of steps down the hall before he turns back to me. "Hell of a picture though." A blush rises up my cheeks as I smile at him like an idiot, and I'm treated to a warm smile from him in return. "That's more like it."

When I get back to my desk, Bonnie looks up at me, worry etched in her face. "You ok?" she asks me. She was the one who showed me the Post and I think she's sorry that she did now.

I nod, because I want her to know that I am fine. And I am. Yes, we've had a hard couple of days. Yes, I was worried this morning that I might have to leave a job that I love. No matter what CJ said, no matter how the press put a spin on things, I knew that there was always the danger that people might talk about me and Toby being married and working together. But luckily, none of that came to pass. My job is safe, my husband is safe. We have good friends behind us, supporting us, and we're supporting them too. Things could have been so much worse.

Speaking of supportive friends, I realise throughout the day that word of my fit of weeping in the waiting room is also common knowledge around the West Wing, and not just the fact that I collapsed sobbing, as Danny reported. The actual text of what I said is also going the rounds, and I blush the same colour as my hair when Carol tells me this over a sandwich in the mess. Carol reaches over and squeezes my hand, giving me a reassuring smile as she does so. "Ginger, no-one's saying anything bad about it. It doesn't make you a bad person. It just makes you human."

I know that she's right, just like I know that people are just talking because they care. I just wish that they didn't have to know about that particular aspect of it.

We're kept busy all day, more so than I can ever remember being, even more so than yesterday. It seems like some mystical twenty four hour deadline has passed, and now every Congressman, Senator and God knows who else is coming out of the woodwork, calling us, wanting to know what we're going to do next.

Which is a nice question if we had time enough to ponder it.

I hardly see Toby through the mound of paperwork that he's buried under, but in the early evening, he comes out and asks me if I want to go to the hospital with him. "I'll understand if you don't," he begins, but I'm already shaking my head.

"I want to go," I tell him, and he just nods, touching my elbow lightly as he moves away.

"OK."

We travel to the hospital in silence, and knock on the door of Josh's private room. There are guards everywhere, and the nurses and doctors are giving us evil looks as we walk down the hall. I'm holding tightly onto Toby's hand, and I don't care who sees us. Being in the hospital is bringing back memories of how I felt yesterday and I need to keep a hold on him. It's the only way that I can keep a hold on myself. Toby opens the door a crack, and I can see Donna turning around in her chair. She look slightly better than she did the last time I saw her, but she still looks pale and drawn, and I'm betting that she hasn't eaten all day. Josh is lying on the bed, tubes everywhere, asleep.

Donna stands and comes over to the door, and her gait is slow, her shoulders slumped, but when she gets to us, she gives us a little smile. "Hey guys."

Toby hugs her, which surprises her a little, and I follow suit when he releases her. "How is he?" Toby asks quietly.

"Sleeping. He's been pretty out of it all day…they say that's the best thing for him…"

Toby nods, his hand on her shoulder. "You want to take a break?"

Her gaze flies back to him and terror crosses her face. "I don't…I mean…someone should stay…"

"I'll stay." Toby's voice is quiet but firm. "Ginger, you'll take Donna down to the cafeteria, get her something to eat, won't you?"

I nod, doing as I'm told, recognising the suggestion for the instruction that it was. We make small talk when we sit down, but it's obvious that Donna's thoughts are with the man lying in bed upstairs. She looks to have aged a thousand years in the last forty-eight hours, and I can't help remembering the two of us walking out to our cars on Monday night, me worried about Toby and David, Donna relating how she'd hidden from Josh after the chair incident. We talked about our plans for the evening, and I freaked her out by giving her the image of me cuddling up to Toby in a thunderstorm. We smiled to each other when we reached our cars, and said that we'd see each other in the morning.

Except that in the morning everything had changed.

I've known Donna since the first day that I joined the campaign. We bonded over collating papers for an event that was on that night, and being of similar age and temperament, we were inseparable from then on. She was bridesmaid at my wedding; she's stayed at the house with us more nights than I care to remember, and now I'm looking at her and she's like someone that I don't even know.

And I don't know if the change is in her, or in me, and when I think of the two girls who kept each other sane on the Bartlet for America campaign, and of the two women who walked to their cars not forty-eight hours ago, I want to weep, because I don't think we'll ever be those two women again.

When we get back to Josh's room, he's still asleep, but Leo is there, along with an older woman who he introduces as Josh's mom. We exchange introductions, then Toby and I begin to make our way back to the White House.

I'm waiting to get into the car when he comes up behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders, letting them rest there for a moment. I lean back against him, closing my eyes, feeling his lips brush against my temple. "You ok?"

I do my best to smile, but I'm not sure it quite gets there. "I will be," I tell him honestly. "Just promise me that we won't stay late tonight?" It's not often that I ask that of him, knowing how important the work we do is, playing the role of the understanding wife without complaint. And I don't mind it, really I don't, and he knows that. But just for this one night, I need him. I need us.

He smiles down at me as he turns me to face him, and I know that he understands. "You got it." He kisses my lips gently, probably intending it to be a quick kiss, but it escalates somewhat, and when we finally pull away, we're both breathing hard. His hand reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and he kisses my cheek. "We'll pick that up later."

I grin at the promise and the way that he said it, and we go back to the White House and true to his word, we're out of there at eight o'clock. Which is about standard for me, but it's early for him, especially with everything that's going on. CJ and Sam are still there when we leave, and they both give us understanding grins and waves, CJ adding a "Get out of here!" when Toby tells them to page us if they want us.

"Leo didn't mind you going?" I ask him as we walk out of the bullpen.

He shakes his head. "I told him that my wife needed me. And he understood."

We don't speak on the way home, the radio turned off, the silence enveloping us like a blanket. I can feel some of the tension that was in my body leaving me, and when we get home, I feel more at peace than I have all day. Toby takes my coat and hangs it up, his hands going onto my shoulders once more. "Why don't you go have a bath?" he suggests. "I'll take care of the food."

I quirk an eyebrow at that. "You're going to cook?"

He grins at me. "No…I'm going to order takeout. Chinese, Italian or Thai?"

I'm already halfway to the bathroom when I call back "Chinese."

I take a long bubble bath, and Toby knocks on the door when the food is ready. When I come out to the living room, my hair damp and falling around my shoulders, clad only in a bathrobe and nothing else, I see him swallow hard. Nothing happens though, and we sit down to have a nice dinner and bottle of wine, talking about everything but yesterday and the day before. Then, when all the food is finished, when the bottle is drained, we retire to the bedroom. And unlike last night, when we were asleep the second our heads hit the pillows, tonight, we make up for lost time.

When we do settle down to sleep, when I'm wrapped in his arms, the last thing that I'm consciously aware of is his lips against the top of my head and his whispered "I love you."

Waking up to find myself alone in bed is a little surprising, and I sit up startled, calling out Toby's name. When there's no reply, I grab my robe, moving through the house, looking all around, but finding no Toby anywhere. There's no note on the board to tell me that he's gone out, and sure enough, the car keys aren't where we usually keep them. So I go to the phone, and I dial his cellphone, but there's no reply. I hang up in disgust when I hear the start of the voice mail message. Worried, more than worried, I decide to stay up for him, and give him a piece of my mind when he gets home. Even if CJ did call him, even if there was an emergency, even if he was trying to protect me, what business did he have to go off and scare me like this?

For want of something better to do I turn on the television, and it tunes itself automatically to CNN. No change there then. Except that I see images on it that are all too familiar…images of shooting and screaming and carnage and I recognise the Newseum and I know without a doubt that that's where Toby is. Terror rises up in me and I move to the television like one who is sleepwalking, and I see people that I recognise on the television, and I stretch my hand out, touching the screen….

Reality distorts around me, and I feel myself falling, falling…. and when I look around again, I'm in the middle of all the chaos, all the confusion, and I know that Toby is there somewhere, because I can hear him, can hear him calling my name. Not thinking, just knowing that I have to find him, I begin to run, crying out his name, begging him to answer me, and then I see him. He's sitting against a wall, and all I can see is his profile, but it's him. I run over to him, telling him that I was so worried about him, but when I get closer to him, my words taper off and I'm barely able to stifle a scream. All I can see is red, so much blood on the pavement, on his clothes, in his mouth, and I gather him to me and it's going all over my bathrobe and all over my hands, and his eyes are looking up at me, but they're not Toby's eyes, because Toby's eyes always have light and laughter and love in them when they look at me, and these are just dead….

That's when I realise.

Toby is dead.

That's when I start screaming.

*

I didn't think I'd get out of the office as easily as I did today. I guess there really is something to be said for having the perfect marriage, as seen by the White House staff. I did feel guilty about heading out so early though, and said as much to Sam. I received a withering look for my concern - well, as withering as Sam Seaborn gets, at any rate. "Toby," he told me, shaking his head. "Go home with your wife. You don't think that, given half a chance, any of us would do something different?"

I tilted my head at his turn of phrase, keeping a smile back with difficulty. "You mean you'd go home with my wife given half the chance?"

He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, and started sputtering Sam-fashion about how that wasn't what he meant at all, and how he values the sanctity of Ginger's and my marriage, before he saw the glint in my eyes and began to laugh sheepishly.

I told Leo as well before I left, expecting that if anyone had a problem with it, it'd be him. After all, this is the man whose slavish devotion to the White House led to the break-up of his marriage. But he just nodded and told me to go. "You don't mind?" I asked him, and he paused from his shuffling of papers, and standing at the desk, his hands shoulder width apart, bent his head briefly before looking up at me again.

"Take care of what's at home Toby."

I left the office with those words ringing in my ears, and the desire to do just that. When we were in the car, I had the radio turned off, and she just closed her eyes straight away, and I swear, she was almost asleep before we left the parking garage. When we got home, I took her coat, and told her that I'd take care of the food, that she should go have herself a bath. She didn't need much convincing it must be said, and I was sorely tempted to join her. But that's not what tonight was about; not at that stage anyway. Because I'd noticed the strain on her face, the paleness of her skin, the dark circles that were appearing under her eyes, and I knew why everyone was pushing me out of the West Wing. She needs this; she needs the normality of a night in, just the two of us. Such evenings are few and far between, reserved for extremely special occasions, but I have the feeling that this is one of those nights where Armageddon would have to be assured before CJ paged me back to the office.

When the food arrived, I called Ginger, and she took her time emerging from the bathroom, amidst a fragrant cloud of steam. But I could see even from across the room that she looked more relaxed than she had all day. I gave her a glass of wine and tried not to notice just how much skin was exposed by the bathrobe she had on, tried not to notice how her damp hair brushed her shoulders. From the smile on her face, I could gauge my success, or lack thereof, in that department.

And after dinner, I got the chance to act on some of the more lascivious thoughts that had gone through my head when I was looking at her in that bathrobe, or thinking about joining her in the bath, before we fell asleep in one another's arms. The last thing I did before I went to sleep was kiss the top of her head, and tell her that I love her.

I don't know how much later it is when I'm woken up by Ginger, twisting and turning. At first, I think that she's just moving around, trying to get comfortable. Then I hear the noises that she's making, soft whimpers and cries, not quite words, but almost. I sit up in bed, blinking as my eyes adjust to the dim light, and that's when I hear her calling out my name, as tears begin to leak from under her still-closed eyelids. One hand is snapping on the light, the other reaching out to wake her when she sits bolt upright in bed, screaming.

My arms are on her shoulders, shaking her, before I can even think about what I'm doing. I'm looking into her eyes, and they're just blank, no recognition there at all. "Ginger, wake up…it's just a dream, it's ok…" These and other meaningless phrases find their way out of my mouth, and I see the clarity coming to her eyes as she blinks wildly.

"Toby?" Her voice is cracked, hoarse, as if she's spent hours screaming.

"It's ok…it's ok…" It's only after I've said the words that I realise that they're the words that I said to her in the bullpen when I first saw her after the shooting. Maybe she realises that too, because she stares at me a second longer, then her face crumples, and she wraps her arms around my neck tightly. I hold her just as tightly, my hands running up and down the skin of her back soothingly, all the while whispering to her that it's ok, that I'm here.

When her sobs subside, when her grip on my neck loosens slightly, I pull away from her as gently as possible, kissing the top of her head when she resists, trying to pull me back to her. "I'll just be a second," I promise, locating my trousers on the floor from the other items of our scattered clothing, pulling them on as I make my way to the drinks cabinet. My hand reaches rests for a moment on the scotch at the front, before reaching past that, to the back, to the full bottle of very expensive Cognac that was a Christmas gift from Sam. I pour a generous glass, then, recalling the screams that ripped from Ginger's throat only minutes ago, double the dose.

Returning to the bedroom, I see her, curled up in a ball on our bed, hugging my pillow to her. She's done her own looking on the floor I see, because my shirt that a minute ago was lying there is now on her; the sleeves pulled down low over her hands. I sit down on top of the covers, as close to her as I can, handing her the glass. "Drink this," I tell her, and she does, even if she's shaking so hard that drops splatter onto the sheets, so hard that I'm half afraid that she's actually going to bite through the glass.

When I'm satisfied that enough is gone from the glass, I take it from her, taking the pillow away from her in the next movement. She takes the hint, moving closer to me, moulding herself to my side. Her head rests on my chest, my chin on the top of her head, and one hand plays with the ends of her hair. "Want to tell me about it?" I ask her quietly.

And very quietly, more quietly than I've ever heard Ginger speak about anything, she tells me about her dream. About waking up to find me gone, about turning on the television, the scenes that she saw there. Falling through the screen, holding me in a pool of my own blood. By the time she's finished, tears are falling steadily down her cheeks, and I can still feel her shaking. Although, on second thought, I'm not sure which one of us is shaking. The images from her dream are far too close to what actually happened to me for comfort, and the knowledge that it could as easily have been me as Josh hasn't been far from my thoughts these past couple of days.

"It was just a dream," I tell her, pushing her hair back with one hand, kissing the top of her head. "Just a dream." I manage to get her back underneath the covers, but she won't take my shirt off, pulling it tighter around her as I stand to remove my trousers and slip in beside her. Once there, she wraps herself around me, holding on tightly, closing her eyes as I keep up my rhythmic stroking of her hair.

Still, it's a long time before she falls asleep, even longer before I do.

This isn't fair. This shouldn't be happening to her. She shouldn't be waking up at night, screaming because she's having nightmares about me being shot at. She shouldn't be crying herself to sleep; she shouldn't be living with this kind of upset, just because some people didn't like the fact that Charlie and Zoey are dating one another. This type of thing shouldn't happen in America at the dawn of the 21st century.

This shouldn't happen.

And that's the thought that stays in my head all the following week, during meetings, during meals, during visits to the hospital. That this shouldn't be allowed to happen here, in this day and age. That we, that no-one should have to go through this. And somewhere along the line the thought occurs to me that we're in power. We are the administrative government of this country.

If we can't do something to stop it, then who can?

I've always been an activist, even in grade school. My sisters are older than me, and when Mom would leave them to babysit me, rather than miss their demonstrations, they'd just take me with them. I credit them with my lifelong interest in politics, and so did my mother - I don't think she ever forgave the girls for the life that I've made for myself. But there's nothing like being shot at to make you sit up and look around you, look at your life, and realise that things need to be changed.

At least, that's what I thought, before I realised that I was wrong.

The thing that will really galvanise you into action is the person that's dearest to you in the world being threatened.

We're in a Senior Staff meeting, the day before new polling numbers are supposed to come out, when the door to Leo's office flies open, no knock, no announcement. Naturally enough, our attention is drawn to Margaret at the door, and Leo starts to yell at her for interrupting us before any of us can begin to take in her wide eyes and pale face. But she's not worried about her boss for once, doesn't even look at Leo, instead seeking me out straight away, and she says one word. "Toby."

She doesn't have to say anything else. Interrupting a Senior Staff meeting, that look on her face, there's only one thing it could mean. Something is wrong with Ginger. I'm on my feet before any rational thought can go through my head, and I'm on my way to the bullpen.

When I get there, somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm struck by the silence. At this hour of the morning, the bullpen is always a hive of activity, people going about their business, shouting requests, looking for information. Now, it's silent, and all heads seem to turn to me when I stride through the door. I don't care about that though. All my attention is on Ginger, who is sitting at her desk, Bonnie and Carol beside her, hovering protectively over her. She's chalk white, and I can see her shaking from clear across the room, and when she sees me, she stands up and goes straight into my arms. I haven't seen her this scared since she had that nightmare the first night after Rosslyn.

I look up at the two women who have taken a step back to stand a little away from us, giving us some privacy. "What happened?" I ask them, seeing that Ginger is in no fit state to talk.

They look from one to the other, and it's then that the rest of the Senior Staff, with Margaret bringing up the rear, arrives. This area of the bullpen is getting rather crowded, so I gesture to my office, walking Ginger in there, indicating that the rest of them should follow us. When we're all inside, Sam closes the door and I ask again. "What happened?"

"Ginger got a letter," Bonnie tells us.

"What kind of letter?" Sam asks, but the set of his jaw makes it all too clear that he's got a very good idea what was in the letter.

From beside me on the couch, Ginger takes a deep breath and looks up at him, wiping her eyes. "It was from…" She swallowed hard. "Someone who didn't agree with a nice girl like me being married to a Jewish man."

There's silence from the group, and I can feel my blood run cold. "Did it threaten you?" I ask her, and her silence, her evasive gaze, is all the answer that I need.

"Where's the letter?" Leo takes charge, and it's Carol who answers him.

"Cathy took it, and the envelope. She went to find Ron Butterfield."

Leo nodded. "Good." He looks down at the two of us. "We're going to do everything in our power to find out who did this."

The only thing we can do is nod, and then we're just standing there, no-one knowing what to say. I take a deep breath, my arm still around Ginger, willing myself to stay calm. "Guys, give us a few minutes, will you?"

Once we're alone, I pull away from her a little, taking her face in my hands, pushing the long strands of red hair back from her face, looking right into her eyes. "Are you ok?" I ask her.

She nods, and I lift an eyebrow, staring her down without words. Her composure deserts her, and she shakes her head, wrapping her arms around my neck, burying her head in my shoulder. I feel pretty close to tears myself, but while hers are of shock and fear, mine are of anger, my confusion over how Rosslyn could have happened doubled by this latest shock. When Charlie and Zoey started dating each other, Charlie was told what to do with the hate mail. So was Zoey. We all knew what certain people would say about a black man dating the President's daughter. But in the two years that Ginger and I have been married, in all the time that we were dating before that, never once have our religious differences been an issue. With my family and hers, David especially, perhaps. But in the wider sense of the word, there's never been a backlash. Not until now. And the idea of people threatening Ginger just because she's married to me terrifies me and angers me.

There's a knock at the door, and Ginger lifts her head quickly; I can almost see her pulling herself together. "Who is it?" I call.

"Ron Butterfield," comes the reply, and I tell him to come in. He looks down at us, at our joined hands, at Ginger's red eyes, and nods sympathetically. "Ginger, I know what a shock this must have been for you," he says. "And I know that this is hard, but it would help us to ask you some questions."

"OK."

"Have you received mail like this before?"

"No."

"You've never received mail of this nature?"

She looks at me uncertainly. "There have been letters to Toby…most of them are weeded out before they get to the office. This is the first one that's ever been addressed to me personally."

"I want to see it." The words are out before I realise that I've said them, and beside me Ginger shakes her head.

"Toby, you really don't."

I look at Ron, and see the sealed bag in his unbandaged hand, knowing that the envelope and letter are in there. And I know that no matter what Ginger says, I want to see it. I hold out my hand to Ron without a word, and I'm relieved to see that it's not shaking. Relieved, and not a little surprised. Ron hands the letter over without a word and I read it, noting out of the corner of my eye that Ginger squeezes her eyes shut and looks in the other direction.

And upon reading the letter I know why.

I've lived with Anti-Semitism all my life. I've heard the slurs, had mail like this before. But it's different now. It's different because this isn't just directed at me, it's directed at Ginger. It's also directed at any children that we might have, and my mind flies back to the light-hearted conversation that we had not so long ago, on this very couch in fact, when she mentioned that the newspaper picture would be something to tell the grandchildren about.

I only read the letter once, but I know for a fact that when those grandchildren, God willing, are in college, I'll still be able to recall the exact wording, how the writing looked on the page. I'll still be able to remember how Ginger felt as she sobbed in my arms, how my stomach lurched when I saw Margaret standing in that doorway, how it twisted when I actually read that venom.

I hand back the letter to Ron. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

"We'll investigate the matter, notify the D.C.P.D, get them to keep an eye on your house…has there been any mail, any phone calls there?"

I look to Ginger, because she handles most of the house affairs, and I’m relieved to see her shake her head, mentally blessing the day that we went ex-directory.

"It's probably nothing, right?" Ginger asks, hopefully.

"More than likely." Ron stands up, smiling kindly down at her. "I know it's hard, but try not to worry about it."

"Yeah." Ginger and I speak at the same time, but hers is more wistful, mine is angrier.

"You gonna be ok?" I ask her after Ron has left.

She nods bravely. "Yeah. I just freaked out for a while when I saw it. I'll be fine."

"You want to go home? Take a break?"

She stands. "I want to go to work Toby."

I'm reminded of the Ginger that I saw here in the hours after the shooting, not stopping for a second, always on the go, trying to keep the memories and the fear and the pain at bay. That's her way of coping, always has been. "OK," I tell her, standing in front of her. "Just promise me you'll take a break if you need to, ok?"

She nods and smiles, kissing me quickly before trying to move past me. Something makes me stop her, wrapping my arms tightly around her waist, holding her close to me. Her smile grows wider, more genuine. "Toby…whatever will people say?"

"Screw 'em," I mutter, bringing my lips to hers to kiss her properly before I let her get back to work.

The day passes quickly, and this time, I keep a close eye on Ginger, looking for any signs of strain or imminent collapse. None appear, and when she leaves at eight o'clock, I leave with her. What with the polling numbers coming out tomorrow, I thought that Sam, CJ and the rest would want me to stay; instead they all but shoved me out the door. We went home, ordered takeout and fell into bed, and when she woke up screaming an hour later, I got us both a glass of Cognac, wondering idly how much of the bottle is going to be left by the time that things get back to normal.

At the White House the next morning, the place is buzzing with our new polling numbers. 81% is quite impressive, although I know that it's soft. We all know that it's soft. But nonetheless, they're the numbers.

We can use those numbers.

That's what I say at the staff meeting when CJ reminds us that the honeymoon is about to be over, that we don't want to look like we're taking advantage of the situation.

"The entire country was the victim of domestic terrorism," I remind her. "Why not use the soft numbers before they disappear and go after the guns and go after the hate groups?" Because you know, you were shot at. We were all shot at, my wife, who wasn't there but watched the whole thing on television is having nightmares and getting death threats through the mail just because she's married to me, one of my best friends, the best man at my wedding is still lying in a hospital bed having been less than an inch away from death, and why can't we use these numbers, soft or not, to do something about it?

"It doesn't look good," CJ tells me.

"It looks good to me." And it does.

Is it too much to ask that my oldest and dearest friend support me in this? Evidently so, and I can't help being annoyed with her. And CJ being CJ, she calls me on it after the meeting. "You're pissed at me?"

"I'm saying, I could've used your support in there."

"You get my support the same way I get yours. When I agree with what you're saying or when I don't care about what you're saying. This time I disagree."

CJ is like a sister to me. I love her, I think she's an amazing woman, but I genuinely do not understand her. "You don't think we should use the moment to get aggressive about guns and hate groups?"

"I think we were victims of a violent crime and it's unseemly to use this moment at all."

Which might be a point that I would be making were it not for the fact that Charlie and Zoey are still getting death threats. There are people who are threatening Ginger. There were more letters after the first one, although thankfully, Ginger hasn't seen any of them. She doesn't even know that they exist, although Ron is keeping me up to date. I read every single word that these people write; I can quote every missive, even though it physically turns my stomach. What's more, I know that this is the tip of the iceberg, that thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands of people have to live with this on a day to day basis. People, ordinary people, trying to go about their lives, living under a cloud of fear and ignorance. We can do something about it. It's our duty to do something about it. "We didn't get the country drunk, CJ," I remind her. "We're not taking advantage of anybody, and even if we were, who cares?"

"Every Republican spending the next 12 weeks trying to keep control of the House."

Ah politics. You gotta love it. "CJ…"

"Toby! If you and the FBI want to go after hate groups, I'm not the one you have to convince. Go bag the President."

We get to my office and I throw my papers down on the desk, my mind made up. "I will."

I expect CJ to leave at the obvious dismissal in my voice, but she stays. "I've gotten a lot of calls about pieces people want to do on how staffers are handling the shooting and the aftermath."

"Psychologically?" I ask.

"Yeah. I don't think it's a good idea. Do you?"

No. Because the last time that we were in the paper, the last time that something was written about how staffers are handling the situation, some lunatic crawled out from under a rock and sent Ginger a death threat. And if you think that I'm going to expose her to that again, you're crazy.

I don't say that to her. I limit myself to, "We're not the story."

CJ nods. "That's what I'm saying."

Once again, she's trying to tell me something. I don't understand it this time either, and I can't find it in me to care right now. I'm going to do something about the guns and the hate groups, even if I have to do it on my own.

"Leave me alone."

She does.

*

My husband walks into the communications bullpen, with a spring in his step, looking happier than I've seen him look for a very long time. The last time I saw him this happy in the White House was the day after his Day of Jubilee when he complimented everyone in sight, Mandy included, and scared the crap out of Margaret. Come to think of it, he scared a lot of people that day. They'd never seen that side of him, which was funny to me, because that's usually all I saw of him. I'd never seen the dour side until I came to work on the campaign. But it seems like the roles have been reversed now, because since Rosslyn, and the nightmares and the letter, the dour, caustic Toby is all any of us ever see, me included. Me especially.

He's muttering to himself as he walks along, as if the weight of the world has disappeared from his shoulders. When he gets closer to me, I can make out the words. "I got it. I got it. I got it. I got it. Bonnie, Ginger, I got it."

I say the only thing that comes to mind. "Excellent!"

"Way to go!" is Bonnie's contribution.

He's gone then, shouting for Sam, and Bonnie turns to me, her face a mask of confusion. "Do you know what?"

"No."

I try to inflect some lightness into my tone, but I'm not sure how successful I am, and I try not to let the fact that I don't know what he's talking about affect me. But it does. I always used to know what Toby was talking about; there was nothing that he didn't tell me, nothing that he didn't share with me. Even if I didn't understand half of what he was telling me, even if I just sat quietly and nodded while he ranted on and on, much as I was doing on the night that he proposed to me, he would tell me all about what he was working on, what he was going to do, what he thought about it.

I love listening to him talk, love how he gets so passionate, so involved in what he's saying, in what he believes.

It's been so long since he did that.

I can't remember the last time he went home with me. He was good about it right after the shooting, which surprised me. Or at least, if he didn't come home with me, he wasn't abnormally late for him.

Then it happened.

It was an ordinary morning. We got up, had breakfast, drove into the office. He went to his Senior Staff meeting in Leo's office; I went to work on the morning mail. When I saw that there were some letters addressed to me specifically, I wasn't that surprised. I got a couple of nice supportive letters after the picture was published, and every now and then an aide or assistant would address a communiqué to me directly, especially if it was about some research or papers that Toby had me asking for. And the first few pieces of mail were fine, nothing out of the ordinary.

Then I opened that one.

I was five lines down before I even realised what I was reading. And when I did realise what I was reading, that it was hate mail directed to me, I finished reading it to make sure that I wasn't dreaming it. I remember blinking a couple of times, wondering why the letters weren't staying still, why they were oscillating back and forth, and then I realised that my hand was shaking. I didn't think that I'd made a noise, except I must have, because I heard a voice beside me, and Bonnie was there, asking me if I was all right. She read the first couple of lines over my shoulder, and said something that would have made Mrs Landingham read her the riot act had she been in or around the Oval Office. Her exclamation made Cathy and Carol come over, and Cathy took charge and grabbed the letter, going to find Ron Butterfield. Bonnie wrapped her arm around me and sat me down on the chair, and I could hear Carol talking on the phone, and I realised that she was calling Margaret. I didn't want her to do that, didn't want her to interrupt Toby's meeting, but I couldn't get my voice to work.

I was glad of that when he walked in, because then the only place that I wanted to be was in his arms, and that's just where I ended up. Then, though I hardly remember getting there, we were in his office, and Sam was asking me what the letter was about, and Toby was asking me if it threatened me.

I couldn't tell him. Couldn't tell him that it threatened me, and him, and any children that we might have. Couldn't talk about the hatred and the venom that was written on the page; hadn't known that that much hatred existed in the world. Couldn't believe that someone I hadn't even met, who didn't know me, could hate me that much. Could hate Toby that much. Could hate the fact that we were together that much. But he saw the look on my face and he knew. And he saw it for himself later anyway, when Ron showed him the letter.

He took me home that night, wrapped me in his arms, held me when I woke up screaming. But ever since then, he's been pulling away from me, slowly but surely. He's been holed up in his office, writing memo after memo after memo, getting Bonnie and me to type them up for him, and sometimes the memos even have to do with polling numbers and the midterm elections. But mostly they have to do with finding ways to fight the hate groups. The rest of the Senior Staff are stonewalling him on it, but Toby is like a man possessed, and he's not taking any notice of anyone.

Certainly not of me.

I'm his wife. I've been his wife for two years, and I can't remember the last time we sat down and had a meal together. I can barely remember the last time he said more than two sentences to me that didn't have to do with the White House or our jobs. I can't remember the last time that he touched me, let alone the last time he made love to me. And I hate that. I love him more than anything in this world, love being his wife, but I hate the way that we've been the past few weeks. I've heard Donna and Margaret and the others tell me how lucky I am to be married to him, to have someone who loves me, and tell me how lonely they are. But it's been a thousand times lonelier for me these past few weeks, because I know what it's like to have that kind of love. And to lose it, yet have him there, close enough to touch but not really, it's the worst kind of pain.

I go about my business the rest of the day, and hear through the grapevine what it was that Toby's found. Since the shooting was the work of three members of West Virginia White Pride, he thinks that the FBI has just cause to investigate and curtail the activities of all extremist organisations when they're investigating the shooting. He wants Donna to let him in to see Josh, but I think the chances of that are slim to none. Donna's keeping him pretty much under lock and key and she's got a list of rules as long as my arm to keep the world at bay.

I'm walking through the bullpen when Donna herself approaches me, looking more than a little harried. "Ginger, I need a favour," she tells me, speaking softly, looking over her shoulder.

"Hey Donna…I heard you had a run-in with Toby earlier."

She smiles. "Yeah, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Toby wanted to go see Josh."

"Which you naturally refused."

"You know what Toby's like about the hate groups," Donna tells me, and I bite my tongue so that I don't tell her that I only know about it second hand. He doesn't talk to me about the hate groups, or about what he's planning. "He'd either get Josh all worked up or all upset, and either way, it's not good for him."

"You're probably right."

"Plus he said the rules were dumb."

I grin in spite of my bad mood. "How could he?"

Donna gives me a look. "Are you mocking me?" I shake my head, and for a second, it feels almost normal. "Good. Look, Leo gave me this report that I was supposed to take over to Josh when I brought him his lunch. But I kinda forgot it." I raise an eyebrow, because that's not like her. "And he needs to see it ASAP, but I'm typing up something that he also needs by tonight, and there's a hundred pages still to go, and I don't have the time to go over there."

"So you want me to go." I'm already reaching over to take the file from her.

"You can't tell Toby. He'll want to go and then he'll…"

"I know. Don't worry about it. He won't even know I'm gone."

Donna doesn't say anything, but I spend the whole drive to Josh's apartment trying not to worry about just how true that statement is. I do a pretty bad job at it. I do such a bad job at it that I miss the turn to Josh's apartment. I then miss it again on the second time around. So when I finally do make it to his front door, I'm more than a little frazzled.

When he opens the door and sees me standing there, he instantly pulls me into a hug, before ushering me in. I look around the place as he chatters, and can't help but see how Donna's put her stamp on the room. It's neat, it's tidy, it's totally unJoshlike, and he doesn't seem to mind a bit. He hasn't even looked at the file that I put into his hand; he's so busy talking about how Donna hasn't let anyone near him, and how it's good to see me, and I take the chance to look at him. All things considered, he doesn't look that bad. A little gaunt maybe, a little tired, a lot pale, but he's still got that boundless energy just simmering under the surface.

Except when he says something and he doesn't get a reaction from me. He tilts his head, looking at me curiously. "You OK Ginger?"

I nod automatically. "I'm fine Josh."

"It's just…Donna called and said you were on your way. I expected you about ten minutes ago."

I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks. "Yeah…I kinda got lost."

He laughs at that, and it takes years off him. "Ginger, how many times have you been here?"

I know he's not being mean. I know he's not making fun of me to be mean. And I know that I should laugh it off. I know all that. And I try. But the line, "You're going to make one of your unfunny little jokes about women drivers now aren't you?" doesn't sound as glib when it's uttered through a throat full of tears.

Dismay floods Josh's face when he sees my upset, and he comes over to me, laying his hand on my arm, indicating to me that I should sit down. "What's wrong?" he asks gently, and I'm reminded that for all his brashness and arrogance, Josh can be incredibly sweet sometimes. This is the man who, the first time I met him, expressed an interest in meeting me because I was obviously a saint to put up with Toby, not knowing who I was. But he apologised the second he found out, and spent the next few days being extra-nice to me to make up for it, until I managed to convince him that it really was fine and that I wasn't offended.

His hand is on my arm, and I look up into his concerned eyes, and I'm a heartbeat away from unloading all my troubles on to him. Then I remember that this is the man who's recovering from a gunshot wound that nearly killed him, and that he doesn't need my troubles on top of his own. "It's nothing Josh," I tell him. "Just a bad day."

"You've had bad days before," Josh points out, and I remember suddenly that he's not called Bartlet's Pit Bull for nothing. "You don't normally get upset like this." He pauses. "Is it Toby?" I nod. "The hate groups?" he guesses again. Toby's been sending him memo upon memo about this, calling him on the phone every hour of the day, so I'm not surprised that he knows something about it. "Come on Ginger," he tries again. "I was best man at your wedding…I think it's my job to mediate in disputes."

I want to laugh at that, but what comes out is some strange mixture of a laugh and a sob. The next thing I know, words are pouring out of me, because it seems like it's been so long since there was someone who would listen. "It's just…he's acting crazy Josh. All he talks about in the office is his latest plan to go after the hate groups…he writes memo on top of memo about it…it's like he's obsessed with it."

"What's he like at home?"

It's not an unreasonable question. Toby at work and Toby at home were widely known to be two different people. But I shake my head. "He stays in the office until the early hours of the morning. He doesn't come home until I'm asleep. And when the alarm goes off in the morning, he barely has time for breakfast before he's in the office. I can't remember the last time we had a conversation that wasn't about work, or that was longer than two sentences." I look into his eyes and I can see sympathy and worry there. "He's shutting me out Josh…and I don't know how long I can go on like this." The words shock me when I hear them, and I can see that they've shocked him as well.

"I didn't know it was that bad."

"No-one does." My voice wobbles on the words, and he scoots closer to me and wraps his arm around me. That show of sympathy is what breaks me, and I begin to cry softly, laying my head on his shoulder.

We haven't been like that long before the phone rings, and I jump, pulling myself out his arms, wiping my eyes hastily. Josh looks at me apologetically, picking up the phone, saying hello to Leo, letting me know who's on the other end. I stay sitting throughout, listening to his side of the conversation. "Yeah…yeah…Ginger just dropped it off…I dunno, I haven't read it yet…she got stuck in traffic, and besides, do you know how long it is since I've had someone to talk to…don't tell Donna I said that…yeah, I'll ring you back…ok. Bye."

By the time he's turned back to me, I've regained my composure. "I’m sorry Josh," I tell him, and I really am. I shouldn't have laid all that on him; he's got more than enough to handle as it is. "I didn't mean to…"

"Ginger," Josh waves his hand dismissively. "You and Toby are my friends. If I can help, I want to."

"There's nothing you can do Josh…there's nothing anyone can do." I take a deep breath, standing up.

"I don't believe that."

How many times have I heard him say something like that, about a Congressman, or Senator? How many times has he stood in the White House and said those exact words, with that exact look on his face? I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, hear the cogs whirring. He's trying to come up with a plan to help us, I just know it. "Josh, it's going to get better. It's going to be fine. Toby'll come to his senses sooner or later…I just have to wait."

"And you're happy with that?"

I shrug. "Not really. But I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

I head for the door and he walks with me, giving me another hug as I leave. "Maybe you can come back again," he suggests. "With Toby next time."

I grin. "Is that with or without Donna knowing?"

I expect him to groan, or start complaining about how Donna was suffocating him, holding him prisoner in his own house. It wouldn't have been the first time. But instead, he gets this small smile on his face. "Whatever," he shrugs, and I file the reaction away for further analysis, being well aware of the subtext involved in that particular relationship.

When I get back to the office, Bonnie sees me and makes a beeline for me. I automatically glance at Toby's office and see the door closed, and wonder if miracles have finally begun to happen and he's been looking for me. "Heads up," she tells me.

"What?" I hang my coat up and put my purse in my bottom drawer. "Is he on the warpath again?"

"Toby's still going on about registering affiliation with the FBI, and how to get around the First Amendment, if that's what you mean." Bonnie's tone is dry, and yet again, I'm struck by how strange it is to hear about my husband's state of mind from one of my best friends. "But it's Sam you've got to be worried about."

"Sam?" I can't keep the surprise out of my voice. Sam's been a rock of stability ever since the shooting; I thought that he'd fall apart, but he's really surprised me. He's been keeping all of our spirits up, kept us all going. "What's wrong with Sam?"

"Some problem about his friend that's running for Congress?"

"Tom Jordan?"

"Yeah…something about his record in jury selection. Sam wants to talk to you about checking it out."

I can see Sam from here, making notes at his desk. "OK…better get started." When I walk into his office, he stands up and crosses to the door, closing it behind him. "Bonnie told me you wanted me to check something out about Tom Jordan?" My pen is hovering over my notepad, but instead of going back to his side of the desk, he sits on the chair beside me.

"That'll wait for a few minutes." He reaches over, taking the pad and pen out of my hands, laying them on the desk. I'm so surprised that I don't do anything to stop him, and then I look at him. He's got a concerned look on his face, and I know before he opens his mouth again what this is about.

"Josh called you, didn't he?"

He grimaces slightly. "He told me not to let you know that."

"Well, he obviously forgot that you can't lie to save yourself Sam." And he really can't. Sam's emotions are written all over his face; they always have been, for as long as I've known him.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Why didn't you tell us how you were feeling?"

"It's not that easy Sam…we're running the country here!" I find myself standing, pacing up and down the office, unable to have this conversation sitting down. "The President and Josh were shot, and the Midterm Elections are coming up, and everyone's so busy… and it's personal Sam. We've never brought our marriage into work before."

"You've never had to," Sam points out. "You've never had a problem before."

"So maybe we need to work this out without outside help. Maybe all this will make our marriage stronger."

"If it doesn't kill it." Sam's words are cruel, and I can feel myself blanche. Sam sees that and apologises instantly. "That was too far…I shouldn't have said that."

I sigh, pushing my hair back from my face, holding it back with both hands. "Toby just has some stuff to work out Sam…and he needs us to be there for him. To pull him back when he goes too far…to pick him up at the end of it. That's what I'm trying to do."

Sam stands up. "But look at what it's doing to you," he whispers, stricken.

"I'm fine Sam." But just like earlier this afternoon with Josh, Sam's sympathy is doing terrible things to my defences, and I can feel tears rising in my throat. "I’m fine."

"No," Sam sounds near tears himself as he steps closer to me, taking me in his arms. "No, you're not."

I should resist him, but I allow him to pull me into his arms, because he looks as if he needs it as much as I do. So I slip my arms around his waist and feel his hands on my back, moving up and down. His breath moves the strands of my hair and I close my eyes, just for a second and concentrate on not crying, on not falling apart.

"Sam, I need to talk to you about-"

We spring apart, turning to the door, looking into the suddenly angry eyes of my husband.

*

Election Night.

It's Election Night again, and Sam is going crazy over the polling numbers. It seems inconceivable to me that it's two years since we were huddled around television screens in Manchester, waiting for the election results, waiting to see if our long months of work had been successful. It doesn't seem like two years ago that that moment of hush descended over the room, only to be broken amid screams and tears of joy. And for me, a kiss from my brand-new wife as we celebrated the start of our brand-new life.

It only seems like yesterday.

And yet it seems like a lifetime ago.

Sam has every single person in the bullpen on the phone, and he's pacing back and forth; can't keep still. I was like that two years ago, and it took Ginger's hand on my shoulder to pull me back to reality. But she hasn't been doing that lately.

I haven't been letting her.

I've been…preoccupied, I guess is the word. I suppose that I haven't been the best husband.

Actually, scratch that. I've been no kind of husband.

Sam pointed that out to me a few weeks ago, the day that I walked into his office and found him and Ginger in one another's arms. They weren't kissing or anything like it, but he was holding her and her arms were around him, and there was a tangible intimacy in the air. And it hit me then that I hadn't held her like that in weeks.

They sprang apart when they heard my voice, and Ginger's face turned pale first, then a dull red, and she mumbled something to Sam about how she'd get right on whatever it was he'd told her to do and she walked out. I turned the full force of my glare on Sam, expecting him to stutter and stammer something out, but he held his ground.

"That wasn't what it looked like Toby," he told me, and I chuckled without humour.

"Really?" I asked. "You weren't standing in your office with your arms around your married assistant? Who also happens to be my married assistant, not to mention my wife?"

Sam's jaw set in a firm line. "She was upset Toby," he ground out. "And I resent the hell out of your implication."

"I'm not implying anything," I told him. "And I think that if Ginger was upset, she'd tell me."

"Not necessarily," Sam muttered, just loud enough for me to hear, going around to his side of the desk.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I asked.

His fingers tapped restlessly on the desk as he faced me. "She's worried about you Toby."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not! Toby, you're walking around advocating throwing out the Bill of Rights! You haven't been home at a decent hour in weeks, I can't remember the last time we had anything approaching a normal conversation, and Ginger's been walking around looking like death warmed up! The two of you are falling apart, and we're standing here watching it happen."

"So you thought you'd pick up the pieces, is that it?"

I swear to God, I don't know what made me say that, even now, weeks later. And Sam was mystified. "The hell?"

Of course, once I started, I kept on going. I'm a speechwriter; it's what I do. "What, you think I didn't see the way you looked at her when she joined the campaign? The way you still look at her? You think I don't know that you'd move in on her in an instant if you had half a ch-"

"That's enough!" Sam picked up a folder and slammed it down on the desk, his shout stilling noise in the bullpen, even through the closed door. "You think that I find Ginger attractive? That I think she's beautiful? You're right, I do. I'm not blind Toby. Neither are most of the other men in the building, and if you go to them and ask them, they'll tell you that they've noticed her too. But the fact of the matter is, no matter how attractive she is, she's also off-limits. Because she's the wife of one of my best friends." He shook his head. "You want to know why we look at her? Why we look at the two of you together?" He wrenched open his drawer, taking out a file folder, pulling a familiar picture from it. "You want to know why this picture was such a hit? Because you're happy. Because you're totally in love, and you make it work. You know how hard it is to have a relationship here. Josh and Mandy, me and Lisa, me and Mallory, Leo and Jenny, CJ and Danny…you two are the only ones who have come through it. Do you know how much that means to all of us?"

I had a sudden sense of déjà vu, of CJ saying much the same thing to me the first day I saw that picture.

"So if she's upset, I'm going to try to help her. And if you're being a horse's ass, I'm going to point that out to you. Whether you think you need it or not."

"I don't."

I turned on my heel and walked out of the office, and didn't mention that conversation with him again. And I didn't mention it to Ginger either, and she didn't bring it up.

And so, I sit here on Election Night, and I look out into the bullpen and see them talking. She's on the phone and I know that Sam's looking for numbers, and I don't give a damn about numbers and exit polls. I don't care if our guys are winning or losing or if it's too close to call. I don't even really give a damn if we take back the House or not.

I've got too much on my mind.

Just like I did three weeks ago when CJ talked to me. I should have been thinking about Asia Pacific. I should have been thinking about the Midterm Elections. I should have been thinking about what a great shot we had at taking back the House. I should have been thinking about Sam and his friend, and coming up with ways to make him feel better about that whole mess.

But then CJ appeared at my door, and I don't know how long she was standing there before I noticed her. She was looking for a draft of the President's remarks on Asia Pacific, the speech that I'd supposedly been refining for the last few days. "I have a draft here," I told her. "I'm going to rewrite it."

She frowned, and I knew that she wasn't going to be easily held off, but I still hoped. "I thought I was going to have it by the end of the day."

That was an easy one to parry. "The day's not over yet." And it wasn't. Oh, a great many people might have gone home by then, might have been sitting down to dinner with their beautiful wife in the home that they share, but I wasn't one of them.

CJ took a deep breath, and from years of knowing her, I knew she was pondering what she was going to say. She surprised me when she didn't dissemble in the least, just came out with it. "You know, Toby. These pieces everyone wants to do on the psychological aftermath of the shooting for the White House staff, they had me thinking. Do you think there might be a psychological aftermath and we're not paying attention to it?"

She'd been holding that in for a while. Nor was she the first one to try to make me have that conversation, but I don't have time for that conversation. Not when there are hate groups out there, who are threatening innocent men and women and children. That's exactly what I told her. "CJ, I really don't have time to have this conversation."

But that wasn't going to hold off CJ. "I'm saying, I think you should have this conversation with somebody."

Yes, her and everyone else. Sam's tried to convince me. Josh has been on the phone, trying to convince me. Even Leo's been dropping veiled hints. And at home, Ginger's been asking me why I don't come home earlier, why I'm staying so late at the office. She's been asking me over the past few weeks what I'm working on, has tried to draw me into conversation about anything, and I've blocked them all out. There's too much work to be done, and no-one but me to do it.

"You think my problem is psychological?" I asked her.

"I think you're Director of Communications and you've been ignoring operational responsibilities..."

"That's crap."

But my protest cut no ice with her. She didn't even pause. "...So you can behave like the Director of the FBI."

I don't know why it was her raised voice that got to me. After all, I'd been having this conversation with various people at various levels of volume for weeks. Maybe it was because it was CJ, the person who's known me the longest, the person I'm closest to on the Senior Staff. Or of course, it might just be the fact that I can't walk away from a good fight. "Well, I'm waiting for the Director of FBI to behave that way."

"Toby." She tried to cut me off, but it was like something had broken inside me, and I couldn't stop shouting at her.

"I'm waiting for the Justice department to behave that way. I'm waiting for Congress to behave that way. I'm waiting for the White House to behave that way!"

Why, why, can't they see what I'm seeing? Why don't they feel the need to act on this?

"You want to lock up everybody with a white sheet?"

"Yes, I do. Yes, I do. Who has a problem with that? Bring 'em to me, right now. YES I DO!"

These people, these strangers who hate black people. Who hate Charlie, even though they've never met him, who hate the very idea of him dating Zoey. These people who hate Ginger and me, who threaten her, who threaten us, our children, just because of my religion. The things that were in that letter, the things that they said they would do to her, to our children…and then, that wasn't the worst of them. There were others, more graphic, more explicit, letters that made me feel faint, such was the level of malevolence. Ginger still doesn't know anything about them, and she'll never hear about them from me. I don't want her to hear about it, don't want her exposed to that. She should never have to know that people like that exist.

So, yes. I want to lock up everyone with a white sheet.

That's what I want.

Except it's not.

I started to realise that when CJ left me that night. That's not what I want. That's not what I'd do with the people who shot at us; with the people who wrote those letters.

If I found out who they were, if I found them, I wouldn't want to lock them up. I'd want to kill them with my bare hands.

And that's not oratory, that's not impassioned speechmaking. That's the God's honest truth. I know, without having to think too hard or too long about it, that if one of those bastards ever carried out their threats on Ginger, if they harmed one hair on her head, I'd kill them.

I stood, not a year ago, in the Oval Office, and I talked to the President about capital punishment. I argued against it. He told me that we've made it very hard in this country for the state to kill someone. I told him that it should be impossible. My Rabbi's words rang in my ears then, and they do now. "Society has a right to protect itself, but not a right to be vengeful. It has a right to punish, but not to kill."

Vengeance is not Jewish, that's what he told me.

And now here I am, less than a year later. Planning vengeance.

What's happening to me?

I'm not the man that I was a few months ago, the man who argued against capital punishment. I'm not even the man I was a few weeks after that, the man who took a lunch meeting with his ex-wife, while his wife worked feet away from him. Nor am I the man I was a couple of weeks after that again, the man who held his wife as she collapsed in tears in a hospital waiting room

I want to be that man again. I want to be the man who loves his wife, who deserves her love. I want to be the man who's doing what he believes in. And I'm not so sure I believe in all this any more.

So with that in mind, I go to see the President.

He's sitting in his chair, relaxing, waxing lyrical over an egg cream. He wants to know where it's been all his life; I tell him that we invented it in Brooklyn, and that there are some good things that didn't come out of New England. That gets the reaction that I expected, but the gentle mocking makes it harder for me to say what I want to say.

"Mr. President, I was thinking... I was thinking it might..."

But he's a smart man, and he guesses. "You want to take a leave of absence," he says slowly.

"I was thinking I might need some time off, yes sir."

Because I can't be your communications director, and fight the hate groups and be Ginger's husband all at once. Something has to go. And I'm not giving up against the hate groups, and I can't lose Ginger, so that only leaves one thing.

"That's no problem, Toby."

So why does my stomach drop to my shoes at those words, at the quiet acceptance? "Okay."

"Not a problem at all."

"Thank you, sir." The knife twists in my stomach and I turn to leave.

"15 minutes."

His voice stops me, and I'm not so sure I understand.

"It's time to get up off the mat, Toby."

How can he be so calm? The man who is like a son to him was the target, the man who dates his daughter. Another man who's like a son to him was almost fatally wounded, and he himself was shot. How can he stand there, with that calm tone in his voice? How can he not be torn up inside; how can he not want to rage against fate and chance and ignorance, and yes, the hate groups? How can he not want that?

"Sir, what's to wrong with having the Attorney General designate potentially..." He tries to interrupt me by saying my name, but I can't let him. I can't stop myself. "...dangerous organisations that promote violent acts? I... I... understand it's problematic. Ah... uh... there'd be no judicial review, or legislative oversight, or even for that matter legal finding of fact, but... " I run out of steam with a sigh when I see the way he's looking at me and I realise that I'm not getting any further with him. "Okay... fine... fine..."

I don't understand any of this. I don't understand why I feel like this. I don't know how this can happen to my life.

"Why does it feel like this?" I'm barely conscious that I'm speaking out loud. "I've seen shootings before."

He stands, looking into my eyes. "It wasn't a shooting, Toby. It was a lynching. They tried to lynch Charlie right in front of our eyes, can you believe that?"

A lynching. That's what it was. An act of madmen, Ron Butterfield called it. That's what they did, and that's what they threatened on Ginger as well. They threatened to lynch my wife because she loves me.

He puts on his glasses and looks for a file; handing it over to me when he finds it. "What's this?" I ask, flicking through it, and my breath catches in my throat when I realise. I don't need him to tell me, because I've seen this file too. I have one just like it.

"Keyhole satellite photographs. It's the headquarters for West Virginia White Pride. Headquarters. It's a diner outside Blacksburg. Every night for the past 12 weeks, I've picked up the phone and called the Attorney General, fully prepared to say two words - 'take 'em'. And then I hang up the phone because I know it'll be better tomorrow and better the day after that. We saw a lynching, Toby. That's why it feels like this."

"I'm not sure I'm going to come out of the other side of this."

That's what scares me more than anything else. I've been scared for so long, for Ginger, for all of us. I love her more than anything, and if anything happened to her because of me, I don't know if I could live with that. But what scares me more is driving her away, like I know I've been doing. I'm not so sure that our marriage is going to survive this intact, and I don't know what I'll do if that happens. That's why I've been working so hard, trying to make her safe. I can't lose her. I won't.

"I'm not sure I can either. But until we are sure, I think we should keep coming into work every day."

He makes it sound so easy.

I can't talk about this with him any more, so I ask him about the school board guy, and he tells me that he's going to win. And I ask him something that I've also been wondering about. "When you ran against him, how'd you beat him?"

He's a cross between puzzled and vexed when he answers. "I don't remember. I've been thinking about it for weeks, but I honestly don't remember."

It's then that Sam comes in, to get the President for the Talk Radio reception, and of course, I get dragged along. I'm not into it at first, barely paying attention, but it turns out to be worth the price of a ticket when the President sees Jenna Jacobs, who I personally find offensive and refuse to listen to, sitting down while everyone else stands. He calls her out and takes her apart, using the Old Testament, which she used as proof to call homosexuality an abomination, to do so. Thoroughly chastened, thoroughly embarrassed, she stands up when he's finished. That's when he calls my name. "Toby?"

"Yes, Mr President?"

"That's how I beat him."

He leaves and I follow him, making my way back to my office, deep in thought. I'm sitting in there when CJ barges in, throwing my coat at me. "Come on," she says.

"What?"

"It's Election Night Toby, and we're going to Josh's. We're going to sit on his stoop and drink beer and wait for the results there."

"I'm busy," I tell her.

"No you're not." She standing there, looking like she means business. "Whatever's there can wait until tomorrow. And I've told Ginger, and she's finishing up some stuff and then she'll come pick you up, so you've got no excuse." She raises an eyebrow. "Come on. They're waiting."

So I go with her and we do just what she says. She and Josh and Donna and I sit on the stoop as Sam makes phone calls to try to get the results. They're all talking and laughing, but I'm only half-listening, still thinking about the President and the conversation we had tonight.

It's only now, sitting here that I realise what he meant when he told me that how he beat Elliot Roush.

He fought him. He took him apart, systematically, point by point, and showed him where he was wrong. Just like he did with Jenna Jacobs tonight.

"That's how I beat him Toby," he told me, and it's just now that I've figured out what's been wrong the past few weeks, why I can't get any further on fighting the hate groups. I've been going about it the wrong way. The best way to fight them isn't to subvert the Bill of Rights, it's not about throwing them all in jail, or fining them. The best way to fight them is to show them that they're wrong. To go on doing what we normally do, to live our lives, and not let their fear and ignorance stop us.

I haven't been doing that. I've been so busy trying to figure out how to stop them ruining my life that I've done a pretty good job of ruining it all by myself. CJ knows that my work's been suffering, that's why she came in to talk to me. Sam's been covering for me too; in more ways than one I realise, as the image of him holding Ginger while she's near tears in his office comes to me again. Ginger…God, when I think of how I've acted towards her over the past couple of months, I'm surprised she hasn't had me in divorce court by now. I can't remember the last time we had even had a proper conversation, let alone the last time I touched her, the last time we made love.

Beside me, CJ taps my shoulder, nodding her head, and it's then that I hear footsteps coming down the street. A familiar flash of red hair soon comes into view, and everyone greets Ginger. She grins down at us all, but I can see the strain behind the smile, the dark circles under her eyes that her make-up's not quite hiding. "Hey." Josh gets a special grin. "She finally let you out huh?"

"Have I ever told you Ginger, "he begins, and I know where this is going. "That I'm an outdoorsman? I love the-"

"Joshua." One word from Donna has him shutting his mouth, and she looks up at Ginger. "Don't get him started."

Josh shakes his head. "Fine…" His voice sounds offended, but the grin on his face, the twinkle in his eyes gives him away. Looking around me now, at my friends, at my wife, I'm struck by how normal all this is. This is the first time that the six of us have all been together since the shooting. We used to do this all the time, at one of our houses, just sit around and drink beer, and if it was our turn to host, Ginger would cook something for us, and it'd be the best dinner that we'd have had in a while because we'd all be together, this makeshift family that had sprung up during the campaign.

This is normal. This is good.

This is my life.

"You want a beer?" Donna starts to stand, but Ginger shakes her head.

"I'm driving Donna. I just came to pick up Toby."

"You can stay for a while though right?" Josh's voice is downright pleading, and I wonder if he's realised the same thing I have.

"There's juice in the fridge," Donna tells us, and Ginger looks at me doubtfully.

I look up at her and nod. "Come on," I tell her. "I need another beer anyway. Anyone else want something?"

There's a chorus of "No," so I stand up, ignoring the stiffness in my limbs as I go up the steps and into the apartment, Ginger following behind me.

*

Everyone seems in good spirits when I see them on Josh's steps, in spite of the final election results, or maybe because of them. There are times when you've got to have a sense of humour in this game. Josh told me that once, on a campaign bus heading to who knows where, and I remember that he and Toby ended up getting into some huge debate about the Governor's prospects in certain districts in the Election. CJ and Sam ended up being mediators, while Donna and I just watched and tried not to laugh. Those were the good old days, when we were all younger, more carefree.

It strikes me as I'm standing here, listening to Josh going on about what an outdoorsman he is, watching Donna resist the urge to kill him, that this is the first time that we've all been together like this in months. Certainly since the shooting, but even before then, the six of us hadn't got together in forever. We used to do it all the time during the campaign, during the first year of office. But then things got harder, and the polling numbers went down, and Toby and Sam were working even more ridiculous hours than usual to get the Mendoza confirmation sealed…things just got away from us. And we came so close, so terrifyingly close to losing it all, with one hit of a sniper's bullet.

Then I think of how all this has affected Toby and I'm suddenly very afraid that we may have lost it all anyway.

I'm not really sure that I want to stay for a while when Josh asks me, but when I look at Toby, I find him staring up at me like he's seeing me for the first time. I ask him a silent question and he nods, standing up and saying that he's going to get another beer, and heading into the apartment. I follow him, my conversation with Josh the last time I was here replaying in my head. I'm so lost in thought in fact, that I don't notice that Toby has stopped walking short of the kitchen, has put his empty beer bottle down on the living room table, has turned to face me. I literally bump into him, and jump back in shock, apologies already coming out of my mouth.

But to my further surprise, Toby just shakes his head, covering my lips with one finger. The only light in the room is a lamp in the corner, and the light shining in on either side from the street and from the kitchen light, and he's staring at me in the near darkness, an expression on his face that I can't quite fathom. But for some reason, I'm reminded of a campaign office, of him stopping in mid-rant and asking me to marry him. I wonder if he remembers it too?

When he's sure that I'm not going to speak, his hand moves away from my lips, so that it's cupping my cheek, and I can't look away from him. If my life depended on breaking this gaze, I would die right now and do it with a smile in my heart. His other hand reaches out to me, to my hip, drawing me closer to him. And then, although I've no conscious memory of either of us moving, my arms are around him and his lips are on mine, and we're kissing.

His hands are everywhere at once, on my back, in my hair, and I know that mine are doing the same, and he's holding me so tightly to him that I can barely breathe. But that seems like a small price to pay to me, because I can't remember the last time Toby touched me at all, let alone touched me like this, and I don't want the moment to end.

But finally the need for air gets to both of us, and we separate. My breathing is ragged, and after a moment I realise that his is too. A small thrill goes through me at that, along with a jolt of shock when I see that his cheeks are wet with tears, as are mine. But his arms are still around me, and his body is still pressed to mine. Even better, there's a small smile on his face, one that reaches right up into his eyes. "I love you," are the first words he speaks to me, and a sob escapes my throat as I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my head in his shoulder.

"I love you too," I manage to choke out, and I can feel him chuckle as he pulls away from me and, keeping one arm around my waist, leads me over to the couch.

When we sit down, his free hand finds mine, and he squeezes it tightly. "I'm sorry," he begins, and I'm shocked. Because it's rare enough for Toby to tell me that he loves me, but for him to apologise is all but unheard of. "I haven't been much of a husband to you the past few months."

I shake my head. "It's ok," I begin to tell him, but he shakes his head and cuts me off.

"No. No it's not. I've been acting crazy, I've been angry and scared and I've been taking it out on everyone around me. You most of all. And that's not ok."

"You've had a lot on your mind…"

"Don't." He pulls his hand away from me, standing up. "Don't try to tell me that what I did was excusable. I had my reasons, or at least, I thought I did. But I should have talked to you. About what I was thinking, about what I was feeling. Instead, I pushed you away."

He stands at the window, his back to me, and I find myself moving over to him, going around to face him. "You're talking to me now," I tell him, and his hand moves up to rest against my cheek.

"They tried to kill Charlie Ginger. Just because they didn't like who was dating. And seeing Josh like that…" His voice trails off, and I lay my hand on his chest, on top of his heart. "Then, you got that letter. And what they said they were going to do to you…I couldn't stand it if something happened to you Ginger. If I lost you." He chuckles. "Turns out that I did a pretty good job of losing you all by myself. I don't know how you put up with me."

I grin up at him. "I'm pretty stubborn you know. Kinda like my husband."

He laughs in surprise, returning his arms to around my waist. "Thank God," he says before kissing me again. When he pulls away, he looks down at me. "I remembered something tonight, when I was sitting out there. Do you remember when Josh and Leo set me up in that meeting with Andrea?"

I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks as I recall the freak-out that I had over that. "I might remember something about it," I say, and he laughs again. God, I've missed that sound.

"I told you that night that I had total faith in you, in us. That no matter what happened, no matter how crazy things got, that all I ever had to do was look at you, and I knew that I'd be fine. I lost sight of that these past few months. I lost my faith, and I am so sorry for that. And I'm so sorry that I hurt you."

He's so obviously sincere that there's nothing I want to do but hold him. And so I do. "Just don't do it again," I order him. Hard as it might be to believe, right now, I don't care what he's done to me over the past few months, what he's put me through. He wasn't himself, but now he is, and that's all that matters to me. I've got my husband back and he's been through hell. I'm not going to lose him again.

"I won't," he promises. "And if I ever do, you have my permission to set CJ and Sam on me. Again."

I giggled despite myself. "They talked to you too, huh?"

"We have very good friends," he tells me.

And while I really hate to contradict him at a time when he's only just begun to talk to me, really talk to me again, I have to. "No," I say, and the surprise is clear on his face. "We have a very good family."

He looks down at me for a second, obviously considering it, before he smiles again. "Yes. That we do."

"Who are probably wondering what we're doing in here." I don't want to consider that, but once the thought pops into my mind, there's not too much I can do about it.

"We should get out there," Toby agrees. "But I don't think we'll stay too long." His lips are upturned in a grin, and right then and there, I'm tempted to say to hell with our friends, let's go home now. Or, if it comes to that, I'm sure Josh's bed would do fine. I shut off the flood of images that that train of thought presents, but I'm sure that it was written all over my face, and Toby laughs again. "C'mon…let's get you a drink."

I pour myself a glass of orange juice, handing him out another beer, and we make our way back out to the stoop hand in hand, matching smiles on our faces. Everyone looks up at us when we come out, and when they see us, they all get these silly grins on their faces as they take in our joined hands and smiles. "It's about time," CJ says, her tone teasing, and I'm struck with the certain knowledge that she's not just talking about tonight. "We were wondering what had happened to you."

Toby sits back down on the step he'd been on when I came, motioning to me that I should join him, so I assume our normal sitting positions on nights like this, on the same step as him, in between his legs. I can look right up at CJ and Josh, and I wink at the two of them. This causes poor Josh to close his eyes as if he's in pain. "Oh God…" he groans. "Do I even want to know?"

"We didn't get up to anything untoward," I reassure him.

"Although even if we had, it's hardly illegal," Toby points out. "After all, we are married."

His hand is playing with the ends of my hair, and suddenly I remember the first time he said those words; on Election Night two years ago, when the results came in and they teased us for kissing like the newlyweds we were in the middle of all the celebrating. They're also the words I used just before he left for Rosslyn, when he was so worried about David and we held each other in his office. We've used them who knows how many times over the past few years when the rest of our friends were teasing us.

Which is what they do now. "Not that defence again," Josh complains.

"They forget about all the times we caught them when they weren't married," Donna says, raising her bottle to her lips, a smirk on her face, and I can feel my cheeks growing red. She's one of my best friends, and she knows some stuff that no-one else on the campaign knows.

"Thanks Donna," I say, seeing that Josh and Sam are eyeing us with unbridled interest.

"Like when?" Josh asks.

I give Donna a look and she shakes her head with a grin. "Don't worry Ginger, your secret's safe with me." She pauses, and for a beat, I think I'm safe. "I wouldn't dream about telling them about the supply cupboard in the Manchester office."

I lean my head back against Toby's chest, feeling it vibrate with suppressed laughter as we take without comment the teasing from the others, taking in CJ's laugh and Sam's scandalised face. And Toby recalls a few choice anecdotes about things that the rest of them got up to on the campaign trail and in the first two years of office. I realise in short order that we're probably not going to leave here until the early hours of morning, despite what Toby said in Josh's living room, and I don't mind in the least. Our bedroom will still be waiting for us at whatever hour we get home, and I know that we'll put it to good use. But for now, I'm content to sit here with my husband, and this crazy family of ours that we seem to have adopted. I'm not under any illusions - I know we have a lot of work to do to repair the cracks in our marriage, and in the friendships. Josh is still recovering, and it's going to be a long time before Donna stops hovering over him. Sam's beating himself up over what happened with Tom Jordan, and CJ's still not completely sure where she is in her relationship with Danny.

The next two years aren't going to be any easier than the last. But we're here. And we're together. And that's a pretty good start.


End file.
